


magnetic moon (pulls me to you)

by taoslefteyelid



Category: EXO (Band), Z.Tao (Musician)
Genre: (bring back tony 2k19), Don't Read This, Fluff and Angst, Heavy Mentions of a Past Relationship, M/M, New York City, also Endgame spoilers, i know sounds fake to me too, if you're in the NYPD, sehun doesn't like hot chocolate in this one, they break into public property so
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2020-09-30 13:44:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20448098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taoslefteyelid/pseuds/taoslefteyelid
Summary: "and it’s you who are whatever a moon has always meant, and whatever a sun will always sing is you."





	magnetic moon (pulls me to you)

**Author's Note:**

> **Prompt Flake:** 77  
**Author's Note:** Hello everyone! I loved working on this fic so much, and I hope that everyone enjoys it! I'm going to be dramatic in the end notes, so I'll take this space to say that I hope you all have a great day!

As Zitao shakes the snow out of his hair, he wonders how exactly everything came to this. His Beijing apartment is perfectly warm and cozy, and he hears that LA is amazingly pleasant this time of year, but here he is, shivering in New York City, as snowflakes float down. He’s not a particularly big fan of the cold, but then again, it does remind him of Qingdao. Home.

He supposes the cold isn’t so bad after all. 

It’s steadily approaching 11 pm, and this is where the streets would start to clear out at home, but not here, Zitao guesses. No, the streets are still lit up as he walks in Central Park (it’s a stupid move, he knows. Don’t go to Central Park at night, all the tourist books say. Zitao doesn’t make it a habit to read them, and even if he does, he’s not a big fan of rules), everything glowing just a little more than it normally does, light diffusing as it reflects off the snow. 

Zitao shivers, and puts his hands in his pockets as he stares ahead of him. The park is starting to empty, and he struggles to make out figures in the distance as he blinks snowflakes out of his eyes. 

And there he is, all of a sudden, like this is just something that happens on a daily basis. A figure appears, right around the corner that’s a few meters away from Zitao. Zitao blinks, convinced that the snow is deceiving him, as he stares at the figure in the heavy white coat approaching him, someone who he can only describe as an angel. 

For a second, when he closes his eyes and opens them again and his brain takes a little more than usual to process this information, the figure blends in with the snow, and Zitao’s heart settles as he thinks about how he must be seeing things, but the next instant, he’s bumped into the angel in the white coat, because Zitao was so busy trying to determine if the angel was real, that he forgot about the physical plane. 

They both take an involuntary step backwards, and then their eyes meet each other’s, and Zitao’s breath catches in his throat. 

“I’m sorry,” the angel starts, voice low and soft, and Zitao wants to cry about how sweet it sounds. “I didn’t mean to-” 

He’s overcome by an urge to interrupt. Normally, Zitao would listen to a voice like that for as long as he possibly could, but his palms itch and burn in the cold December air, and he  _ needs  _ to say this. 

“You must be an angel,” he whispers out, breath clouding in the cold air, and for a second he can see a flash of something he can’t place on the angel’s face. 

The angel takes a second to compose himself, and then breaks into a smile that makes Zitao want to rearrange the stars and pull them down to the surface of the Earth. 

“I bet you say that to everyone you bump into,” he laughs, and Zitao’s heart clenches. 

Zitao opens his mouth to deny it, to let the man in front of him know that he’s not the type to arbitrarily call someone an angel, but then he’s struck with a memory, so many years ago, of bumping into a smaller frame, when even he was a few inches shorter, and saying the same thing, in awe and maybe a hint of reverence. 

“Not everyone,” Zitao says. “I only say it if I mean it.” 

The angel laughs. It’s a lovely sound. It sounds like home. 

Zitao is rendered speechless, and so they just stare at each other as the sounds of the city punctuate their own personal bubble of silence. 

“Sehun,” the angel suddenly blurts out. “My name is Sehun.” 

Zitao’s eyebrows raise just the tiniest bit, and he clenches the material of his coat in his fist. They’re doing names. 

“Zitao,” he offers in return. 

“Zitao,” Sehun says, rolling it around in his mouth as if expecting it to unexpectedly fly out. “You bump into people often?” 

“Sorry about that,” is what Zitao offers instead of answering the question. “It’s the snow, I didn’t see where I was going.” 

“That’s okay,” Sehun says, eyes still fixed on Zitao’s. “That’s perfectly okay.” 

That same silence invades their space again, calming, filled with the sounds of the city. It’s not awkward at all. The snowfall seems to lighten up. 

There’s a tug in Zitao’s gut, a gentle push, as if the universe has undone its seams just to whisper in his ear.  _ Don’t let this go _ , it says. As if every choice he’s made so far has lead to this moment, and all the little strings connecting those choices are quivering with anticipation. 

When the universe speaks, you listen. 

“Do you maybe-”, Zitao starts, abruptly, before fumbling. Sehun looks at him patiently. 

He tries again. 

“I haven’t gotten dinner yet. Do you maybe wanna go-” 

“Grab some?”, Sehun finishes for him, as if he knew what Zitao was asking before Zitao did, even though the question is seemingly out of nowhere.

Zitao nods, before realising the implications of what he’s just asked the angel he bumped into in Central Park. 

“Only if you want to! I don’t want to keep you from anything, I-” 

“No, I’m fine, I’ll come. I found this really great pizza place last week,” Sehun says, casually, like it’s the simplest thing in the world.

“You sure?”, Zitao asks, but carefully, carefully. “I’m not keeping you from anyone, am I?”

Sehun laughs again, and Zitao watches as snowflakes settle in his hair. 

“No, you aren’t. I’m telling you, it’s okay.” 

“No angry boyfriends?”, Zitao asks, and maybe his heart speeds up as he says it, but he ignores it. 

“No angry boyfriends,” Sehun reassures Zitao. “I should ask you the same. Any jealous partners I should be worried about?” 

“None,” Zitao says, and it strikes him how weird this would sound to a passerby, but then he remembers that this is New York and there are a million different stories happening at the same time, and it’s unlikely that a passerby will want to hear this one. 

“Cool,” Sehun says. “Names and relationship status. How’s that for an introduction?” 

Zitao looks at Sehun and he thinks of the sea, how it laughs and smiles and ripples, playful waves lapping at the shore. He thinks of the beach in Qingdao, rocky ground with a cold sea, and he thinks of the chaos and love the water holds. 

“Perfect.”

He’s not talking about the introduction.

\--- 

Zitao tends to walk with both his hands in his pockets, head down as he stares at the street, but as he walks with Sehun, he can’t help but stare at him instead.

Sehun walks with his hands freely swinging, posture perfect and eyes fixed in front of him, but there’s a ghost of a smile on his face, as if he can sense Zitao staring at him.

“So,” Zitao starts. “You come here often?”

He cringes inside as he says it. What sort of question is that? He sounds like the lead of a bad Hallmark romcom, the kind that takes place over one night.

Sehun turns to him, and it seems like his phantom smile has finally achieved corporeal status. 

“Depends on what you mean by here”, Sehun says, head tilted as he regards Zitao. “I don’t make it a habit to come to New York, if that’s what you’re asking. I’m just here for a few months. I’m taking a break, sort of.”

Sehun pauses, stepping over a crack on the pavement. Someone jostles past Zitao, muttering about tourists blocking the way, gone before Zitao can get an apology out of his mouth.

When he turns his attention back to Sehun, he’s looking straight ahead again.

“But if you mean the park, then yes, I walk there every other night. I know, I know, everyone says it’s not safe, but there’s something about it in the winter. I think I’d risk getting mugged if it means I can see it snow in Central Park.”

Zitao feels a familiar sense of worry creep over him, but he shakes it away. Not now.

“Why aren’t you taking a break somewhere like LA?”, he asks instead. “The weather would be better there right now, no?”

Sehun hums, considering it. 

“Yeah, but I’ve already spent a lot of time in LA. My job sort of mandated that if I was in the states, I’d be in LA. New York is different. It’s new. I think I just wanted the comfort of something unfamiliar.”

Zitao nods in agreement. He gets that. 

“I think it’s pretty much the same for me,” he says, and Sehun looks curiously at him. “These past few years, I’ve been travelling all over, wandering, almost, and it really  _ is  _ comforting, in a way. The great unknown, you know?” 

“The knowledge that there is so much more than you in the world,” Sehun muses. “I think there’s something about it that settles us. Brings us down from those little mountains we build ourselves with all our insecurities and worries and hopes and dreams.” 

Zitao lets it hang in the air, the words getting heavier with every passing minute. He wonders, again, how it all came to this. Here he is, discussing the nature of the soul, with an angel he bumped into in Central Park. 

He would be willing to let it hang a little longer, to have some time to mull over the words and really understand them, but then Sehun’s hand is on his elbow, and he’s tugging him across the street, and they’re standing in front of a tiny pizza place with flickering fluorescent letters spelling out “Tony’s Pizza” marking its existence.

“Here. I hope you like pizza.” 

Sehun says it like he’s asking the most delicate question in the world, and Zitao nods carefully, just as gently. 

“Doesn’t everyone?” 

\---

Tony’s Pizza is warm, welcoming. It’s busy too, even though the night is slowly inching towards ungodly hours. 

“How did you find this place?”, Zitao asks, as him and Sehun approach the cash register. 

“Oh, you know,” Sehun shrugs. “I’ve been here for two weeks now. I explored.” 

Zitao turns to the cashier, and smiles, giving the board with the menu on it a quick glance. Nothing special, just what you’d normally find in a classic New York pizza place. 

“One pepperoni slice for me, and-”

Zitao pauses, looking over at Sehun, who just shrugs, as if signifying that Zitao could get him whatever. 

“One round of garlic bread, no dip, with a sachet of ketchup, if you could arrange that. Oh, and to-go, please.” 

The cashier nods, and Zitao thanks him as he hands over the change he’s rummaged up from his pockets. He joins Sehun, who’s gone to stand over where the booths are. 

“You wandered the streets looking for good pizza places?” 

“Ah, yes,” Sehun says. “Just like you wandered the world, I walked the streets of Manhattan, tasting every single pizza I came across, until I found this one specific place in Upper East side. That’s exactly what I did.” 

“Someone recommended it to you, then?”, Zitao says, barely suppressing a smile. 

“Actually, someone must’ve dropped a napkin from here out in the hallway, because it slipped under the door of the place I’m renting out for the next month. I found it and I thought, why not, you know? The universe speaks to you in the strangest ways.” 

Zitao thinks about the feeling that had grasped him, thinks about the reason why he’s standing waiting for pizza in the first place. He knows the universe all too well by now.

“Right. The universe’s most well known form of communication. Cheesy Italian goodness.” 

Sehun laughs, high and clear, playfully shoving Zitao, who barely budges from where he’s resting against the wall. 

“Stop,” he laughs. 

Zitao turns to him, and he’s stopped trying to suppress his smile now. 

“Tell me, Sehun,” he asks, voice mock serious. “Does the pepperoni send you messages? Does the garlic bread whisper secrets to you? Does the oregano spell out gravely important pieces of information?” 

“You’re ridiculous.” 

Sehun’s face is open and happy, lit up as he laughs and laughs and laughs, and Zitao can’t help but laugh along. 

“It’s a lovely place, though,” Sehun says, once he’s calmed down. “The first time I ate here, I ate in one of the booths. It was nice, it really was, but I’ve found that if you take your pizza or whatever and go sit on one of the benches outside, it’s a lot nicer.”

“The benches have got to be freezing right now,” Zitao says, looking outside through the glass front of the place. It’s still snowing lightly. 

“That’s the point. Think about it, warm food and cold benches. It has its own charm.” 

Sehun seems to swear by it, so Zitao decides that he’s ready to be frozen stuck to a park bench. 

He opens his mouth to say something, but then one of the staff members is waving at him, and he realises that their order is ready. 

“That was quick,” he comments, as him and Sehun shuffle to the counter. 

“They’re always quick here. That’s one of the reasons why I like it.” 

“You act like you’ve been going here your whole life, even though you’ve only been here two weeks.” 

“What can I say?”, Sehun shrugs as Zitao picks up their food from the counter and smiles gratefully at the cashier. “I get attached quickly.”

Sehun opens the door for Zitao since Zitao’s hands are full, and quickly bounces out to join him. 

“Well, you should probably find a bench to attach yourself to if you want to eat your garlic bread while it’s still hot.” 

“Follow me.” 

Sehun says that as if he’s going to sprint ahead and he expects Zitao to catch up, but instead, he grabs Zitao’s elbow and tugs him along. This almost causes Zitao to drop their food, but he holds steady, pliantly allowing Sehun to pull him wherever he wants to go.

It’s a short walk until Sehun finds the bench he was looking for, and he sits down, looking expectantly at Zitao. Zitao plops down near him, and instantly yells. 

“Oh, jesus fuck, that’s  _ cold _ ,” he exclaims, gingerly trying to adjust his weight so that as little of his body is in contact with the freezing metal bench as possible. 

“What did you expect? It’s literally snowing.” 

Zitao tries not to yell anymore at how cold the bench is, because Sehun seems fine, but he can’t help but shake his head and mutter about how Sehun is insane.

“Gimme,” Sehun says, making grabby hands for his garlic bread. Zitao hands him the box, watching as he grins happily and opens it up, fingers immediately digging in, finding warmth in the bread. 

Zitao opens up his box too, and the slice of pizza looks really, really good. He picks it up, and his fingers welcome the warmth. He takes a bite.

It’s delicious. 

They spend a few minutes like that, eating in silence as the metal starts to warm up under them. Zitao hadn’t even realised how hungry he was until the first bite. 

“So,” Zitao asks, and when he looks over, it seems like Sehun has already finished his garlic bread. “Why are you getting food at 11pm with someone you bumped into in the middle of the night?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“You know,” Zitao shrugs, taking another bite of his pizza. “A guy like you. Why  _ don’t  _ you have someone waiting for you?” 

There is a curiosity in his voice that Zitao hadn’t realised was present until he heard his own voice. A curiosity, and anticipation. As if he’s waiting for a bucket to tip over, to douse him in almost freezing water and to leave him out in the cold. Must be the universe again.

Sehun stares at Zitao like he’s been slapped, and Zitao wonders if maybe the question was a bit too tactless, but then Sehun’s pulling his legs up on the bench.

(Zitao winces at that. The bench is still freezing, even after leaching away all of his body heat.)

“I left the dating scene years ago,” Sehun says, and he’s almost whispering, but not quite.

“And why’s that?”

“I fell in love.” 

“Ah. That usually does it.” 

Zitao says it nonchalantly, but his heart is about to beat out of his chest, and there’s a nervous thrum in his hands, and if there was a piano where his thigh was, people nearby would’ve heard the first few notes of Fur Elise. If someone hadn’t known better, they’d read it as nervous disappointment. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever loved anyone like I love him,” Sehun says. 

Zitao notes the present tense. 

“Tell me about him,” Zitao says, and he can feel that this is dangerous territory, but he needs to know. 

“Haven’t seen him in years,” Sehun says, and he sounds more resigned than anything. “He left a while ago, when things got too rough. Not between us, but… yeah.”

“What, he just left you? Bit of a coward, isn’t he?” 

Zitao knows he sounds more bitter than he probably should, but he can’t help it. The look on Sehun’s face is a particular kind of soft longing that he can’t bear to see.

“Life was falling apart around us. We used to work together, and I had him, and he had me, and that was all well and fine, but everything else… wasn’t. His health, his career, he… He had no choice but to leave. Not me, he never wanted to leave me, but...”

Zitao’s tapping becomes increasingly frantic as Sehun trails off. 

“His career? He left an angel like you, for his  _ career? _ “

Zitao looks up to meet Sehun’s eyes, only to find himself being glared at. 

“Don’t you dare,” Sehun whispers, and his voice is steely, colder than the bench they’re sitting on. “The things he went through-” 

“I’m sorry,” Zitao says promptly, not wanting to argue this early on. He’s not sure he means it. 

They dip into silence for a while then, and Zitao’s pizza has become cold. He sets it aside. 

“He wrote me a letter. Before he left, I mean. He told me everything he wanted to, cried when he left, and apologised for so many things that weren’t his fault, and then he handed me this one, stupid letter, with the dumbest things I’ve ever read. It’s so beautiful. I have it memorised.”

Zitao can’t do much but listen, and he watches as Sehun turns his attention to the sky. 

“You can’t see the stars here,” Sehun says. “I love this city, from what I’ve seen of it, but you can’t see the stars.” 

It’s back, the urge to pull the stars down to where Sehun is, to rearrange them to his liking. 

Zitao watches as Sehun takes a breath, and realises that maybe you can’t see the stars in the sky in New York, but they’re still there. 

You just need to know where to look. 

\---

“Ice cream?”, Sehun asks, ten minutes later, after they’ve sat in heavy silence. 

Zitao checks his phone. It’s just past midnight. 

“Do you have no plans of sleeping tonight?”, Zitao asks, but he stands when Sehun does anyways, hands in his pockets, following him down the street. 

“No,” Sehun says simply. “It’s just one of those nights, you know? Even if I tried to sleep, I wouldn’t be able to.”

“Lead the way, then.” 

Sehun turns around and smiles at Zitao. Zitao smiles back.

\---

“What about you?”, Sehun mumbles through his Ben & Jerry’s ice cream. 

“What about me?”

“Why are  _ you  _ alone in New York? 

Zitao sighs, and looks away from Sehun’s expectant eyes. It’s only fair, he supposes. 

“I think love fucked us both over.” 

Sehun laughs, a dry, heavy sound that doesn’t sound very happy at all. 

“I don’t think so,” Sehun says. “I don’t think love fucked me over at all.”

Zitao takes in a shaky breath. 

“I don’t get it. You fell in love, and it seems like it didn’t work out, and it hurt you so bad, but you’re still so…”

“So what?” 

“I don’t know. Hopeful? Optimistic? Romantic?” 

“I never fell out of love,” Sehun says, and it’s gentle, like Sehun is. “I never had to deal with being disillusioned, or having my beliefs shaken. My heart was never broken. It just didn’t work out, because of things that neither of us could control. Love transcends that.” 

Zitao takes a moment to marvel over just how soft Sehun is, how smart he is, but he can’t bring himself to agree. If it hurts, it hurts.

“Why?”, Sehun asks, shaking Zitao out of it. “Did your heart break?” 

Zitao thinks about it, thinks about the nights he’s spent crying, thinks about the nights he’s spent scrawling nonsense on paper in an effort to make the pain go away, to make it easier. 

“No. No, I don’t think it did. I’ve just been angry for so long, you know? At the universe. At myself. Not the person I fell for. Never him.” 

That rustle in the fabric of the universe is back, but it’s quieter this time, like it’s an apology. 

Sehun listens closely as he scoops up the last bits of his ice cream. 

“And I think when you get that angry, it’s hard to remember just how good love is to you. When you can’t control things, when the rest of life gets in the way-” 

“You wonder if it’s meant to be,” Sehun completes for him. 

“Yeah.” 

Sehun hums. 

“Love isn’t a meant-to-be-not-meant-to-be deal. Never has, never will be. The universe can only do so much to push people together, you know? And yeah, sometimes you can’t control it, but I don’t think that matters. As long as you’re putting it out into the world, as long as that love is going somewhere, it serves a purpose.” 

“I’m still head over heels,” Zitao declares, and it’s the first time he’s admitted it out loud, that he’s still in love, that he still wants everything he wanted so many years ago. “I still am, but I don’t know. Can’t exactly fly out and meet him and tell him to run away with me now, can I?” 

“Why not?” 

Zitao looks sharply at Sehun, and he takes in the look on his face. Curiosity? Satisfaction? He can’t place it. 

“I don’t know,” he admits. “Some unspoken rule out there, I guess. You only get a chance at love like that once.”

Another one of those dry, heavy laughs. Zitao looks down.

“If that was true,” Sehun says, dusting the remnants of his ice cream cone of his fingers, “love might as well not be a thing.”

Again, it’s like the words sink into Zitao’s very being. He looks up at the sky. 

There’s a slight glimmer in the corner of his eye, and he remembers what Sehun said about not being able to see the stars. 

His hand moves on its own, wrapping around Sehun’s wrist like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Sehun gives him a questioning glance, and he simply points up. 

He watches Sehun, watches as his eyes trace the path of Zitao’s fingers, craning his neck to look past the skyscrapers. He watches as the recognition blooms across Sehun’s face, along with a simple smile. 

“It’s not a star,” Zitao says, “but the moon is its own class of beauty, isn’t it?” 

Sehun nods slowly in agreement, still staring up at the moon, pale silver and unusually bright. 

It’s right there, as Zitao stares at Sehun’s face and wishes for something he’s convinced himself he can’t have, that the universe apologises again. 

_ I’m sorry,  _ it seems to say.  _ I’m sorry about the angel in Central Park who’s in love. _

Zitao accepts it.

\---

It’s when Zitao lets go of Sehun’s wrist that he realises just how cold Sehun’s skin was. 

“You’re freezing.” 

Sehun tears his eyes away from the moon, turning back to the path they were aimlessly wandering on. 

“Yeah, I’m actually feeling kinda cold. Even with this coat, it’s a bit chilly right now.” 

Sehun’s coat is indeed ridiculously heavy, and he’d seemed to be fine with sitting on the icy hell bench, but he definitely seems a lot colder now. 

Zitao clasps his hand around Sehun’s wrist again, and for a second he doesn’t know what he’s planning on doing, until he spots the Starbucks down the street. 

“Come on,” he says, gently pulling Sehun along, who goes with no resistance. “Let’s get you warmed up.” 

\---

“I’m not sure I should have coffee after that ice cream,” Sehun says once they’re standing outside the Starbucks. 

“You don’t have to get anything,” Zitao says. “I just don’t want you freezing to death.” 

“I’m not going to freeze to death.” 

“You’re not exactly preventing it, what with the stupid bench and ice cream in the middle of December.” 

Sehun pulls a face of mock offense, but he steps through the door anyways when Zitao opens it for him. 

They end up just ordering a hot chocolate for the sake of it, which Sehun grips in his hands as Zitao finds the warmest seat they can sit at. 

“Thank you,” Sehun mumbles as he sits down. “I get really cold sometimes for no reason.” 

Zitao just nods in response.

“It’s the middle of December in New York. I think getting a little cold is allowed.” 

Sehun smiles, and then looks down at his hot chocolate. 

“I don’t even like hot chocolate, but this is so nice to hold,” he comments, and Zitao laughs. 

“More of an eggnog person?” 

“Nah,” Sehun says. “I just can’t be bothered with the drink part of the hot chocolate. I’m only here for the marshmallows.”

“Right,” Zitao says, sitting up in his chair as easy listening music filters through his ears. “I’m taking you to a grocery store after this. We’re getting you a bag of marshmallows.” 

Sehun laughs. 

“You’re planning on sticking with me all night?”

Zitao pauses then, considers it. 

“Well, we’ve stuck together so far, haven’t we? You said you didn’t feel like sleeping, and now that we’ve exchanged tragic backstories, I’d say that I should be allowed to wander the streets with you.” 

“Tragic backstories. That’s a fun way to put it.” 

Zitao taps his fingers against the table, watching Sehun in the warm lighting of the Starbucks, the smell of caffeine clearing his head only slightly. 

“Well, you know what they say. The more tragic the backstory, the happier the ending.” 

Sehun laughs. 

“I don’t think a single person has ever said that, ever,” he says, eyes sparkling. “But I think you’re right.” 

“I am! Haven’t you noticed? Every single character with a dark and tragic past in every single popular story gets to be happy by the end.” 

“Unless you’re Tony Stark,” Sehun says, setting the hot chocolate down.

“Unless you’re Tony Stark,” Zitao agrees.

They take a moment of silence. For Tony Stark.

“But there’s something very human about that,” Sehun says, once they’ve both silently cursed the Russo brothers. “Like, that’s all we hope for, right? That even after all the pain we’ve been through, we’ll get to be happy.” 

“We’re so philosophical all the time,” Zitao laughs. “We bumped into each other what, two hours ago? And we’ve already discussed love and humanity and everything in between.” 

Sehun shrugs. 

“We’re two people who bumped into each other in Central Park, and are now wandering the streets of New York together. It’d be a bit disappointing if we didn’t somehow dissect the universe, wouldn’t it?” 

“I wonder if the universe appreciates being dissected.” 

There’s a soft shift in the air, as if the universe is shrugging, telling them it doesn’t really mind at all. Zitao wonders when he became so in tune with it. 

Sehun hums, and takes a sip of his hot chocolate. 

“Oh, that’s not very good,” he says, wrinkling his nose. He takes another sip anyways.

Zitao wonders if it’s possible to fall in love again. 

\---

Sehun spends a good half an hour describing his dog as he continues to sip on the hot chocolate he didn’t like. 

Zitao listens to him talk about Vivi, and notices how his hands move, and how Sehun chews on his bottom lip when he’s thinking, and how his eyes sparkle. There’s a sudden, inexplicable pit in his stomach. He waves it away. 

For now, he’s going to listen to Sehun.

\---

“So,” Sehun says as they walk out of the Starbucks after the barista shoos them out by pointing at the 1:30 am closing time. “Coming back to love. Do you still want it?” 

“Want what?” 

“Love. You know, do it all over again. Have him back.” 

Zitao shivers as he adjusts to the cold. That heavy pit in his stomach is back.

“Yes.” 

He says it with more certainty than anything he’s told Sehun. No hesitation, no winding sentences with too many commas. 

“I love him,” he forges on, taking a deep breath. “Irrevocably. Without a doubt. It’s the best thing I’ve ever done.” 

He pauses, and the universe is pushing at him to let it all spill over, but he resists. 

“It sounds like there’s a but at the end of that,” Sehun says, and the smile on his face is a little sad. 

“But…”

Zitao sighs.   
  


“Sometimes I wonder if it’s selfish to want him back so bad. If I should just move on, let him move on. It’s… cruel, to tell someone you love them more than words can convey, even if it’s true, and then break up with them anyway.” 

“What if he loves you back just as much?” 

“He does,” Zitao sighs, thinking of late night dancing and cuddling in the afternoons. “At least I think he does, and that’s what hurts the most. I’m not an easy person to love, and he loved- loves me despite that, and I just-”

“Hey,” Sehun breathes out, gently touching Zitao’s elbow as they walk down the street. With the exception of a few cars and the stray pedestrian on the other side, everything is relatively calm. Seems like they’ve found a rare quiet spot.

“Hey, it’s okay. You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

“I just…” 

Zitao turns to look at Sehun. 

“I feel guilty. I feel guilty every day, because everytime I see something beautiful, I’ll think of his face and smile, and I don’t think I should get to have that. I feel guilty because I think about his hands in my hair and his smile in the morning and his sleep talking and I’ll  _ miss  _ him. I’ll miss him so much and I feel like I shouldn’t be allowed to.” 

At some point, they stopped walking, and now they’re standing on the pavement, facing each other, as Sehun looks sympathetically at Zitao. 

“It’s okay,” he mumbles, and Zitao closes his eyes and shakes his head to clear everything out, ignoring the universe yelling at him, telling him this is his chance. “It’s all going to be okay.” 

Sehun looks a little more pained than you would expect him to, but he gently lets his hand cross the invisible border of Zitao’s space and curl around Zitao’s fingers. 

“You don’t need to feel guilty. Never, ever feel guilty for missing someone you love.”

Usually, another person would provide more evidence, but Sehun doesn’t press further, as if hoping that those two sentences are enough. Zitao thinks about Sehun’s hand on his own.

They are.

\---

They walk in silence for a while, until they come across a park. 

“How many parks does this city even have? I thought Central Park was it.”

“More than a thousand, actually.”

Zitao looks over at Sehun, eyebrows raised.

“Why and how do you know that?”

“I don’t know. I just do. I also know that Manhattan only has like 5 out of those thousand, so this is probably Bryant Park.” 

Zitao gapes at him, and Sehun shrugs. 

“Well, that and I just read that sign which says Bryant Park in really big letters.” 

“Of course.” 

“It’s closed,” Sehun says, but it looks like he’s itching to go inside. 

“Look,” Zitao says, pointing at the fence. “It’s short enough to jump if you get on the little concrete thing.” 

“Are you suggesting we break into  _ the  _ Bryant Park?” 

“ _ The  _ Bryant Park?” 

“They held New York Fashion Week here till 2010. I always wanted to go.”

“Ah. Yes. Yes I am.”

“Awesome.”

“You aren’t tired?”, Zitao asks, curious. They must’ve walked for a good half an hour after leaving the Starbucks. 

“Not at all,” Sehun says, and he’s already scrabbling to the raised concrete.

Zitao takes a look at the city outside, as if something (probably the universe, that sneaky bastard) is telling him to remember this, because he’ll come out of the park a lot different. 

He listens.

\---

They manage to get into the park, after Zitao  _ finally  _ manages to get Sehun  _ down  _ from the fence. Sehun had climbed up easily enough, but after Zitao vaulted over, he’d realised that Sehun was still perched on top. 

“You need help?”, Zitao’d asked. 

“No, I’m fine, I just… it’s so pretty up here.”

( _ “Love, you need to come down from the roof, I’m going to get arrested.”  _

_ A bright pair of eyes, a tiny smile.  _

_ “Zitao, you can see everything from here!”) _

Zitao had blinked the memory away when Sehun had cleared his throat, almost nervously. 

“But also, I won’t mind a little help.” 

“Okay,” Zitao had said, already moving close to where Sehun is so he can place his hands on Zitao’s shoulders. “Let’s get you down from there.” 

Sehun had jumped, using Zitao as support, and maybe there was a moment where they were too close to each other, but they’d let it pass. 

(Much to the chagrin of the universe, from what Zitao could hear.)

Now they’re doing what they did outside the park inside it, that is, walking aimlessly. 

“Okay,” Sehun starts, and he’s chewing his bottom lip. “Here’s something I’ve never told anyone before.” 

Zitao turns around, walking backwards so he can look at Sehun. 

“So when- when he left,” Sehun says, as if Zitao understands perfectly well who he’s talking about. Zitao does. “I was, quite expectedly, distraught. But it wasn’t in the emotional way, you know? Like, I wasn’t crying over  _ The Notebook  _ and Haagen-Dazs ice cream. I don’t know, I just kind of shut down? If that makes any sense.”

Zitao swallows everything he wants to say down, and it all joins the pit in his stomach. It doesn’t matter. Right now, Sehun is talking, and Zitao wants to listen.

“And I never blamed him. Never. But- but there were times where I would have to eat dinner in a strange city all alone- I was travelling with my friends for work, by the way- but there were times where I would eat his favorite dessert all alone, and I’d miss him, so so much.” 

Sehun takes a breath. 

“So, this one time, I was in LA, right? It was just before Valentine’s Day, I think. And I’m sitting there, all alone, when this woman comes and sits in the seat right opposite mine.” 

Zitao almost trips over a pebble, so he turns back around, but he keeps his eyes fixed on Sehun.

“She’s like, ridiculously beautiful. She has these tattoos? I don’t know what you’d call them, but there are these little golden stars running up her arms, and her skin is lovely and smooth and dark, so they stand out. And so she sits down in front of me, and I’m about to tell her that she’s very pretty, but I’m gay, so it wouldn’t really work out, when she looks at me and asks me how I am.” 

The noises of the city fade away increasingly in favour of Sehun’s voice, and Zitao wouldn’t have it any other way.

“What did you say?”, Zitao asks, and he really does want to know, because in the past few years, he’s never known how to truthfully answer that question. 

“I didn’t say anything,” Sehun shrugs. “I just… I started crying. Burst into tears, right there in the middle of this busy restaurant. I just started sobbing, and I’d never cried like this. It’s like everything just sort of piled up, and she asked me that and I just couldn’t take it anymore.”

Zitao’s heart aches at the thought of Sehun crying, and he waits for the universe to nudge him, but the universe is strangely silent, as if it too is waiting with bated breath for what Sehun has to say.

“She just sits there, and watches me cry. Not in a mean way, but it’s almost like she’s comforting me.”

Zitao taps his fingers against his thigh as he walks. There’s nothing he can really say.

“So she reaches out,” Sehun continues, still biting at the skin of his bottom lip. “And she holds my hand. And this is the first time someone has held my hand after he left, at least, the first time I’ve  _ let  _ someone hold my hand.” 

There is no one else right then, just the universe and the moon and Zitao and the angel he bumped into in Central Park, wandering in New York City.

“And I tell her, “I miss him,” and I blubber it out, so it’s almost unintelligible. I’ve never met her before, I don’t expect her to know who I’m talking about, but I say it anyways, but she holds my hand and looks straight at me and tells me, “I know, I’m sorry, love.” Just out of nowhere. I’m sitting here, bawling in this restaurant, and she tells me she’s sorry.”

Zitao wonders about what he would’ve said if he was there, but then remembers that he doesn’t even know what to say here.

“She tells me one more thing,” Sehun says, and his voice is quieter now. “She holds my hand tighter and she tells me, “Look for the stars and the moon, sweetheart. Listen to the universe. I know what I’m talking about.” And I stop crying for a second, to look up at her, but then she just… gets up. Leaves.” 

_ “Listen to the universe. I know what I’m talking about.” _

She probably meant that Sehun should trust her, but Zitao can’t help but note how it sounds like she’s referring to herself as the universe.

“So did the universe tell you anything? Via your pizza, perhaps?”

Zitao jokes, but his tone is soft, subdued, watching Sehun smile just as softly under the moonlight reflecting off snow and the hues of the city. The universe rustles in his ear, as if annoyed at being teased. Zitao swats it away. 

“All the universe told me was that I wasn’t alone,” Sehun says, and then he looks over at Zitao, whose heart catches. “And it was right.”

Zitao looks down and wonders how someone can be so kind and hopeful and lovely, wonders for the billionth time if Sehun is an angel. 

He wouldn’t be surprised.

\---

They’ve been walking in the park for about twenty five minutes when Sehun spots the carousel. 

“I knew I’d read about a carousel here!”he breathes out, and he’s running over before Zitao can say anything. 

Sehun’s already jumped the little fenced in enclosure and perched on a stationery horse by the time Zitao gets to the fence. He hurries, wanting to catch up, but decides not to join Sehun on the horse. He’s had terrifying experiences with carousels. 

Rollercoasters he can handle, no problem, but carousels and haunted houses? Not a chance.

Instead he opts to sit on the grassy ground right in front of the horse Sehun has climbed on. It’s cold, of course it is, even after he dusts all the snow away. He doesn’t really care about ruining his jeans. 

Sehun looks so excited to be on the horse that Zitao’s heart stutters a bit. It’s a strange sight without a doubt, a six foot tall man on a tiny carousel horse, but the glee on his face makes up for it. 

Zitao looks up at him, and wonders if Sehun knows just how beautiful he is. 

“I wish this thing could work,” Sehun says, and Zitao’s pulse speeds up as he starts running through ways to break into the parks control center and turning through the carousel. “But I’m not a particularly big fan of getting in trouble with the NYPD or something.” 

Zitao nods, and then realises that he was seriously considering pulling off Mission Impossible: Bryant Park Adventures for Sehun. Zitao’s skin has always been decidedly not pale, so when his heart speeds up and blood rushes to his cheeks it tends not to show, but he can’t risk it, so he just lets his legs sprawl out and his torso fall backwards. The snow is cold even against his jacket, but he doesn’t mind if that means Sehun doesn’t see the absolutely besotted expression on his face.

“Oh, snow angels!”, Sehun exclaims excitedly. “I’ve always wanted to make those.”

There’s some noise, what sounds particularly like a six foot tall man clambering off a carousel horse, and then footsteps in the snow, before Sehun flops down right near Zitao. 

Sehun laughs, gently.

“It’s really soft,” he mumbles, sounding so soft himself that it hurts, “Really, really soft.”

“I for one thought it was a bit cold, but I guess soft works too,” Zitao shoots back. 

“Cold doesn’t matter,” Sehun laughs. “It’s winter, everything is cold.” 

Zitao can’t disagree, and they let themselves be submerged in the sounds of the city for a few minutes. Sehun moves his arms and legs out and back in. He’s really making snow angels.

“You know,” he says, after they’ve lain there for a few moments. “The Greeks believed that there were seven types of love.” 

Zitao turns to him, hissing as his cheek comes in contact with the snow. 

“You sound like you don’t agree.” 

Sehun thinks for a second.

  
“Yes. No. I don’t know. They compartmentalised it so neatly, and I don’t know, I just don’t feel like anything can be that perfect.” 

Zitao thinks of Sehun’s face when he smiles, but then catches himself. 

“I mean, with some of them, I get it. Like Storge, or Philautia. But it’s the others that make it complicated.”

“Tell me about them,” Zitao breathes out.

“Well,” Sehun huffs. “There’s Eros, which is basically what we’d call sexual attraction. It doesn’t mean a lot on its own, it’s just that, lust. Then there’s Philia, which is platonic love, in a sense? I don’t really know, it’s more like loving someone’s thoughts than anything else. The Greeks didn’t really have the concept of platonicity in their minds, you know? Whatever went, went. Relationships weren’t more or less important if they were platonic.”

Zitao looks up at the moon and nods, gesturing for Sehun to continue. 

“Then there’s the overtly romantic ones. Ludus, the playful love. Think of flirting and teasing and midnight dates.”

Zitao does. He misses it.

“Pragma, long standing love, commitment. When you go through so much with someone, and you still choose them, over and over and over again.” 

Zitao takes a breath, because his lungs feel empty, and the moon glows a little brighter. The universe rustles in anticipation. 

Sehun picks up some snow and lifts his hand, letting it drop over them. Zitao doesn’t blink when some of it hits his face. 

“And then,” Sehun says, and his voice is quiet now. “There’s Agape. The love you hold for the universe.” 

The universe quivers happily.

“I never understood that one fully,” Sehun muses, his hand dropping back to his side. “They said it’s the selfless love that comes with doing something and not wanting anything in return, the love for the soul, for humanity. But, and here’s the problem I have with the classification, it’s so… restrictive. As if it’s some rule, or something.” 

Sehun hands move around a lot more, getting more animated, and all Zitao can do is watch, his hands up against the sky, right next to the moon.

“Do you get what I mean? What about Ludus that became Pragma? What about Philia that started as Eros? What about Pragma that is also Philia, that has never been Eros?” 

Sehun pauses to breathe, and it’s like the universe takes a breath with him.

“And… Agape. Agape is so much, so much to feel, but… You can feel it for a person too. You can love someone without any expectation of any form of return. Like there’s the universe, where we and the moon and the sun and the stars exist. And then all of us have our own personal universes, you know? For some of us it’s a person, or a lot of people, or maybe it’s the sea and the sky. And if someone is my universe, I can feel Agape for them, right? But there’s so many rules, and I don’t think love is like that.”

“What do you think love is?”, Zitao whispers, and it seems like the universe catches it and amplifies it, because it echoes in his ears. It’s like they’ve been splashing around in the ocean for a bit too long, and the shadow of a giant wave hangs over them.

“I don’t,” Sehun says simply. “You can’t think about love. You can just feel it.” 

Zitao’s eyes fly open. There’s a name that flashes in his head, along with a philosophy, and the universe pushes an address to the back of his mind. Everything falls into place, and his heartbeat drums insistently in his ears. He looks for his phone, to check the time. It’s 4 am. They can’t ignore it anymore.

He scrambles to his feet. 

“I wanna show you something,” he says, almost breathless. He tugs a very confused Sehun to his feet, and pulls him to follow. 

All that lingers as he jumps the fence is how there was a snow angel where Sehun had lain. 

\---

“4 Patchin Place,” he breathes out, as they stand in front of a brick building with a vine creeping down the fire escape. It’s a name that’s stuck in his head for the longest time.

“What is this?”, Sehun asks, and Zitao watches closely as Sehun watches in wonder from the pavement, moonlight and streetlights blending into his skin.

Zitao takes a second because the universe is whispering for him to slow down. He does. 

“Do you know who E.E. Cummings is?”, he says, voice quiet and hands almost trembling.

Sehun blinks. 

“No, I don’t think so.” 

Zitao tried not to be on edge about this, and it’s finally starting to sink in, about how this is  _ it.  _ He doesn’t know how else to do it, so he settles for rambling. 

“So, he was this experimental poet,” Zitao says, and he sounds a lot more emotional than he should. “Visionary. Unmatched in his field.” 

“Oh,” Sehun says, and the smile on Sehun’s face has a fondness Zitao hasn’t seen in years. “That’s nice.” 

Zitao’s fingers tap nervously on their own accord. He wills them to stop. To his surprise, they do.

“So he said this thing, right?”, Zitao sighs, and the absurdity of everything, of this whole night, is so close to crashing down on him. “He said “to know is to possess and any fact is possessed by anyone who knows it, while those who feel the truth are possessed, not possessors” which is basically just a fancy way of saying that truth and love and poetry can't be known, can't be owned, they can only be felt. And after what you said, it’s like it all fell into place.” 

“He has a very soft view on love,” Sehun whispers. “It’s very lovely.” 

“He- He thought that humans were all completely whole creatures, you know? Perfectly intact in themselves, but love was the mystery of all mysteries, and it’s humanity’s only happiness to transcend along with that love.”

Sehun stands only a foot away from him, but it still seems like too much.

“It’s like what you were saying!”, Zitao exclaims, and it’s weighing on him now. There are flashes of notebook paper and a pen in his hand, but he pushes them away. “Love is transcendent. Cummings, during his whole life, he was- he was  _ obsessed  _ with the moon.”

Zitao looks up, searching for the moon, and it’s right there, where it’s been hanging for so long now. Sehun looks at him instead, curious.

“So, through all his poems, he kept circling back to the moon. He said it was a splinter, a watchspring, a- a big red dog, he said it had small hands. But this one time, this one time, he called it the shyest metaphor. And I just-” 

Zitao points up to the moon, and Sehun follows his finger, stepping closer instinctively. 

“He said that because any attempt for him to understand the moon just ended with the image of it fleeing him. Every time he’d try to know the moon, to possess it, he just… couldn’t. And that’s what you were saying about love. That the Greeks were right but also wrong because love can only be felt, and it can never be compartmentalised in those little boxes, because to do that, we’d have to know it.” 

Sehun’s still staring at the moon. 

“I didn’t know how to respond when you said that love transcends pain and fault, and I was never the biggest fan of Cummings and his philosophy but...” 

Zitao trails off, not knowing where to take this. Sehun tears his eyes from the moon, and looks over at him. 

There’s a confusion in his eyes, as if to ask why Zitao spent so long dragging him here, trying to find this place, just for a simple bit of information like that, no matter how lovely.

Zitao looks at Sehun, open face and calm eyes, and the universe whispers, again, that this is his chance, that they will never have a night like this together again if he doesn’t take this chance. Zitao takes a second and wonders if it would be different if this story was one that started in Central Park and ended in Patchin Place, but he looks at Sehun and realises he could never risk finding out. 

“His most popular work,” Zitao breathes out, “is arguably a poem called  _ i carry your heart with me(i carry it in _ .”

He sees something flash across Sehun’s eyes. A recognition of sorts. 

“Oh,” Sehun says quietly. “Oh, I think I know that one.” 

“Most people do.” 

“No, I-” 

It feels like the strands of the universe are wrapping over Zitao’s hands to keep them steady. Sehun has tears in his eyes. 

“Remember that letter I told you about?”, Sehun asks, and he says it like he’s fighting to get the words out, to make them seem natural. Zitao nods. “It’s like four lines, and a few are from there, I think.” 

“How does it start?”, Zitao asks, voice trembling, knowing full well that the question is redundant. 

Sehun gulps, and uses a shaking hand to wipe away a tear that somehow slipped past. The night is suddenly so, so silent. No one but them, the moon, and the universe. 

“I carry your heart with me,” Sehun says, in a trembling voice and intonation that E.E. Cummings probably never thought of. “I carry it in my heart.” 

“And then,” Sehun sniffles, shivering a lot more in the cold, as if this has broken dams that he can’t fix, as if he’s been pushed to the precipice all night and he can’t take it anymore. “There’s a paragraph break, and he- he says-” 

Sehun takes a breath, and Zitao’s heart shatters all over again, in a million tiny little pieces. 

“He says, “If only we could do this all over again, in a different time, a different place, if only we could be strangers again,”” and now Sehun is crying, actually properly crying. 

Four lines, Sehun had said. Zitao waits for the fourth, but instead, gets a question. 

“How does it end?”, Sehun asks him, and it’s then that Zitao knows that the night has drawn to a close and he needs to decide now. 

_ How does it start? _

_ In the middle of Central Park, or in a dim corridor when they were teenagers? _

_ How does it end? _

_ In front of number 4, Patchin Place, or does it not end, not yet? _

Zitao opens his mouth, and the tears that slip down his own cheeks make him feel so much more cold than he already is. The universe can’t stop him from shaking now. 

He makes his choice.

“I love you,” he whispers, and Sehun furiously rubs the tears off his own face. “I love you now, forever, always, more than words can convey.” 

A pause, a brief, tiny pause, where the world stops spinning and the universe holds its breath.

“Signed, Huang Zitao.” 

It’s that single whisper from Zitao that sets everything back in motion. The sounds of the city come rushing in and the universe threads back into place, and Zitao receives an armful of a sobbing Sehun. 

“Too long,” Sehun cries, any composure forgotten. His shoulders shake as Zitao’s arms come up to hold him, and he’s clinging to Zitao so tightly that it almost hurts. “We’ve been strangers too long.” 

“I know,” Zitao manages to choke out through tears as he holds Sehun. The wave has broken, crashed over their heads. They can’t pretend anymore, so Zitao holds Sehun and thinks about late night dancing and cuddling in the afternoons and stargazing on the roof with him. “I know, I’m sorry, I love you, I love you.”

_ “ _ I love you,” again and again and again, and it’s not clear who’s saying it, but Zitao is holding Sehun, and Sehun is holding Zitao, and this is not a story that starts at Central Park and ends at Patchin Place, but it is a story of Zitao and Sehun and the moon and the universe and pizza and ice cream and warm coffee shops.

It is a story, and it may not begin and end where it seems to, but it is a story, of the universe, a wanderer, and the angel he bumped into in Central Park. 

\---

_ “run away with me” _

_ it’s whispered callously in the dark, as if its implications aren’t as monumentally heavy as they are. _

_ sehun has a boarding pass in his hand a few hours later, and he’s sitting in a plane, holding zitao’s hand. _

_ the lady who asks if he’s doing alright from the next aisle has golden star tattoos on her arms, and rustles quietly when she moves.  _

**Author's Note:**

> so, a few thank yous:  
to the lady who helped 12 year old me find the rest of her group: thank you. i love your tattoos. i hope you enjoyed being the universe.  
to new york city, for being, well, new york city.  
to ee cummings, for teaching me the importance of lowercase letters and weird spacing, and the moon.  
to my prompter, who i actually know and love a lot, thank you for this prompt. i've never really enjoyed writing a fic more.  
to all my friends who heard me yelling about this fic but never got any of the details. you all put up with so much.  
and finally, to you, the reader. thank you for reading this.
> 
> send love out into the universe today.


End file.
